


World on a String

by madcowmama



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Time Travel, brittana fic, gleerant, sugar from the future verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 11,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madcowmama/pseuds/madcowmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany after their daughter has used Brittany's time machine and become Sugar Motta. Set in gleerant on tumblr's future!Sugar verse. Their younger son is Charlie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pocket Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany has something for Santana.

Brittany waits in the shadows as Dani exits. The unforgettable scent of Santana’s armpits wafts past Brittany’s nose. Maybe this was the exact right time.

Santana is still just on the other side of the door. Surprise.

“Brittany! What are y—“

“Hey. I brought you something.”

Brittany opens her hand. In her palm is a ladies’ pocket watch, all gold filigree. Pretty.

“Brittany?”

“It’s my Senior Thesis.”

“Senior?”

Brittany stifles a grin.

“Yeah, Senior.” She lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s beautiful.”

“When you want to be with me again, just open it, look in, and think of me.”

Santana gives her the scrunchy face.

Brittany glows.

“See… I have its mate. They want to be together. Forever. So when they’re activated, they go together.”

Brittany keeps herself from kissing Santana, not really wanting to smell the smells on her face.

“So,” says Brittany, “When you’re ready. Gotta go.”

“Wait,” says Santana, “How’d you get here?”

Brittany smiles. “Master’s Thesis.” She winks.

And blue light surrounds her body, and she’s gone.


	2. R-n-D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany interrupts Santana's research.

"Hey Babe, whatcha doing?" 

Santana peered over the top of her glasses. “Research,” she said, tweaking her  mouth a little at one corner. 

Brittany rolled Santana’s desk chair to the side and sat across her cowboy-style.  “Oh, yeah?” she said. She spun them around so she could see the screen. “You know it doesn’t have to be that complicated, right?” 

"Mmhmm, said Santana, a little tremor building in her voice. She couldn’t keep her smile under wraps any more.  "But we could do it, and I want to try. With you." 

"Right now?" Brittany’s eyes sparkled. 

"Well, we could practice right now."

"I could get behind that." 

"I could get in front." 

"Or on top?" 

"Or underneath?" 

By now, Brittany’s lips hovered an inch away from Santana’s earlobe. 

"How do we do it?" she whispered. 

"Um…" said Santana, starting to look around at the screen. 

"No, Babe, I want you to tell me in your own words." 

"It isn’t very sexy…" 

"But you are. Tell me what you want, and how we’re gonna do it." 

"God, Britt." 

"I’m right here. Tell me." 

"Well, first we have to sync up our cycles," said Santana. 

"Done," said Brittany, rewarding her with a little nibble. 

"And then… And then… Um," Santana’s voice started going squeaky. 

Brittany pulled away a little.  

"Nononono, come back here," said Santana. 

"Tell me what you want me to do," said Brittany. 

"Britty, I want (oh god) I want you to put your tongue in my ear." 

"That’s not gonna get what you want." Brittany had her sly eyes on.  

"Well then we.. we give each other injections to… to pop out our eggs, and…  Honey, I can’t do this!” 

"Yeah, but I like when you’re flustered," said Brittany, making it a little more  worth her while, but not too much. 

"Flustered is turning into frustrated real fast," Santana, her tone shifting. 

"Well, you don’t  _have_  to tell me,” said Brittany, starting to stand up. 

"Oh no you don’t," said Santana, pulling her back onto her lap.  

"I’m waiting." 

Santana spun them so both could see the screen. “Okay, there’s a procedure to  harvest the eggs, then they do some magic with them, and then…” 

Brittany was smiling. She removed Santana’s glasses.  "What do you want, Santana?" 

"I want… I-want-to-have-your-baby, Brittany." 

That was when Brittany began to unbutton Santana’s shirt. 


	3. Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana and Brittany at home.

Brittany opened the back door. She shuffled her fingers between Santana’s and drew her out onto the porch. She smiled. She beamed. She glowed.

Summer soothed her muscles, but Santana’s heart wouldn’t slow. She’d gulped air all day, unable to concentrate.

She trembled before their freshly-rolled topsoil. Brittany’s Santana-sense touched her free hand to her wife’s cheek before the thought even crossed her mind. It worked its magic, and Santana stilled.

“It’s a lot of dirt,” Santana whispered.

Brittany planted a smiling kiss on Santana’s lips. Several moments elapsed. Santana detached, brushing her hand under each eye.

“It’s our dirt now,” grinned Brittany, “all ours.”


	4. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana has been trying to get pregnant for a long time.

Somewhere around forever, it’s a minute til noon.

They’ve been sitting in the waiting room.  It feels like forever.  Brittany can count on her fingers and the toes of one foot how many months it’s been actually, but it feels like they’ve been spit out of the event horizon on an infinite outward trajectory.  Four hundred fifty-seven days of temperature taking, viscosity monitoring, injecting and being injected with crazy-making chemicals, trips to the money floor of the clinic, fertility to the left and plastic surgery to the right, no insurance necessary because no insurance covers it, but who’s counting?  Egg collection sucks, and they fucking die over and over.  Nobody knows why.

This is new; there are no guarantees.  On the money floor there are never guarantees, only success stories and odds.  They’ve spent enough to cover a couple months in a top-floor ocean-view room on Kauai, with room service, but who’s counting?  The injections have them both on edge.  Have had them both on edge, for four hundred forty-three days.  The stress has gutted their sex drives.  Santana has put on some weight. It’s not like she doesn’t look fine, she does, but she’s uncomfortable, and she’s pissed that Brittany hasn’t.  Brittany reminds herself all day every day to roll with it, reconnect with why she’s here in the first place, and treat herself and the love of her life gently.  It takes work.

She’d been prepared to wait for Santana for a long time, even, but they’d both caved after just a few weeks.  This is something she thought she could do, but after two hundred seventy-nine days, something seemed to go numb inside.  She steels herself, comes back to the task daily.  Why are we doing this?  What are the steps?  What is the next step?  

Baby baby honey baby you know I’d love our baby even if it didn’t come from us.  Did she say that aloud?  After three hundred sixty-three days she’d called a house meeting. How long can this go on?  Why are we doing it this way, exactly?

They’d fought.  In their way, silently, avoiding eye contact, but somehow always ending up glued together in the mornings.  Isn’t Happily Ever After supposed to be easy?  But it never has been.  Loving her is easy.  It’s the easiest thing.  Being with her is necessary.  Like water.  Ever After is work, being conscious of how they are different, and they are so different, and accepting their limitations as much as possible, filling in where the other is unable.  Seeking help where both of them suck.

Making babies together is one of those places.  Who’d a thunk it?

So much chemistry between them, but among them?  Not so much.  So, to the money floor.  Brittany is over it.  If it doesn’t take this time, she really doesn’t want to continue.  She doesn’t want another fight.  She hates fighting Santana.  But she loves Santana.  Like water.

Santana’s thumb nervously, almost abrasively, strokes the places between her knuckles.

This is the time.  This is the time to be right here, right now.  Because this time is the time.  This time has to happen, this time.  Brittany stills Santana’s hands, looks into her eyes.  She knows.  This is the time.  The PA with the clipboard calls them.

This is her cue.  This is when she invokes all the calm and positive she can connect with and evokes all the cozy comfort Santana needs.  Touch is key. They stand.  Brittany steadies her arm, the most ladylike gentlemanly lady ever, then places a hand low on her back.  Santana is avoiding eye contact again.  Baby baby baby baby baby.  This is the time, baby.  Brittany places her other hand on Santana’s cheek, careful but also possessive.  Their eyes meet, sink into each other.  This is the time, baby.  This is the time, baby. This time.  This time.

She.

(She!)

She is the time baby.


	5. Well, What Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana and Brittany at gay family camp.

Santana and Brittany are at gay family camp with their 3-year-old daughter, who is playing in the dirt near the circle of adults at cocktail hour.  You know you’re at gay family camp because there’s a cocktail hour.

 One of their companions fixes them in her gaze and asks, “So, which one of you is the butch?”

 “What?” they both ask.

 “Which one of you is the butch?”

 “Neither,” they both say.

 “Which one cooks?”

 “Both of us,” simultaneously.

 “Which one does dishes?”

 “Both of us.”

Santana says, “We both wear dresses.  We both use makeup.  We both care for the kid.  We both changed the diapers.”

Brittany says, “You might wear pants more often.  And you really rock that jeans-boots-wife-beater look.”

“Who folds the laundry?”

“She does,” they say.

“Who takes out the garbage?”

“She does,” says Santana.

“Who takes out the spiders and/or dead animals?”

They look at each other.  Dawn breaks.

“That would be me,” says Brittany.


	6. The Baby Whisperer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sugar plays with her baby brother Charlie.

His skin is so soft, yet his hands are so strong.

She’s really torn about having a brother. It was wonderful having both moms’ attention for almost eleven years. And yet, sometimes, it’s too much attention. Like they know when she does anything. And answering for everything she does is maybe a little too much responsibility.

He’s so pretty, with his nearly translucent skin. She can see this blue vein that runs across the bridge of his nose so plainly that it makes her more aware of her own skin, her own veins. How fragile she is. How even more fragile he is.

Nobody,  _nobody_ , will ever hurt him.

Holding him, she senses both his strength and vulnerability. He bounces when she holds him, and she can feel both his ability to push hard with his legs and his inability to stand alone. She can feel his core-strength between her palms, yet she has to make sure, still, that his big head doesn’t flop over and bang the floor when she lays him down.

She lays him gently on the play mat and tickles his belly. His goofy toothless smile gets bigger before it bubbles up into a squeal of mirth. She holds her hand over his chest, and he grabs it and pulls it to his mouth. Slowly she moves his arm across him and above his head. He pops onto his belly. For a moment he can’t remember she’s behind him now. Then she moves to where he can see her and the smile comes back.

Mama keeps calling her “The Baby Whisperer,” but Mom keeps mumbling about how much fussier she was at this age. Next time she’ll call Mom on it. After all, she’s just keeping it real.

She doesn’t know her Mom has them on the baby cam. From her study, Santana has been watching for twenty minutes. She looked up when the vocalizations changed, when she noticed their daughter’s voice murmuring, then sounds of delight from the baby.

What caught Santana was the way the girl plays with him. Santana would never have thought of playing that way herself. The easy physical play that’s also fun and delightful and educational. She’s never thought of herself as a naturally mothering type—she still habitually tends to be sharp with others, but it looks like maybe she’s done well enough, so far anyway.

Sometimes Santana thinks maybe she’s been too severe with their eldest. She does try to correct herself, but it’s so hard to let go of old habits. One moment of inattention and she falls back into her overly critical habit, and she knows, because that’s how it was when she was a girl, that the critical moments are crucial. That’s what they’ll remember.

She goes silently to the nursery doorway. She watches her babies play. She is so proud of her sweet sweet girl.

The most familiar arm wraps around her waist. The Santana Whisperer. She turns to her, smiling. Brittany returns it, sighing into her ear, “Baby Whisperer.”

Santana nods.

Just as, for the first time, baby Charlie rolls over on his own.


	7. Cozytimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Must be time for a nap.

Two sharp tugs on her shirt pulled Santana’s attention away from the screen.

“Hey, Sir Tugs-a-lot, ‘sup?”

He held two hands up.

“Baby, you’re not a baby, Baby.”

She picked him up anyway.  She made a sling of her linked hands and cradled him close to her.  She touched his face.  He touched her face. She kissed his cheek.  He kissed hers.  She smiled at him.  He smiled back.  Would she ever regret having held him?  No. People told her to her face that she coddled him too much and that was why he didn’t bother talking.  He didn’t have to.  Fuck them.

He pointed to the couch.  Pointedly.

“Cozytimes?” she said.

He pointed again, nodding.

“Let me close this down first.”  She started signing off.  Two more tugs. “Yeah, Baby?”  He pointed.  Again.  “Yeah, just a minute.”  Three tugs. “Baby, that’s enough.”  Five tugs.  “Charlie, no.”

Seven tugs.

Santana took in a deep breath.  It was so easy to lose her patience with him.  He just wasn’t anything like his sister.  He just wasn’t anything like any of the other kids around.  He just wasn’t…  Wait.  What he was, was…  What he was, was…  he was… like Brittany.  Of course he was. Only more so.  So.  Understanding him should be the easiest thing in the world. 

(It wasn’t always.)

She stood with him and carried him to the couch, where she sat up against the arm and propped her legs up on the cushions and wrapped herself all around him.  Like Brittany did with her.  She made contact with as much of him as she could.  She listened to his breath, synchronizing her own with him.  His muscle tension began to melt.  He leaned onto her and wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight, so tight. What if they’d never decided to have kids?

It was hard sometimes, so hard.  But the times the kids just slipped their hands into hers… that was worth it.  Her friends without kids really didn’t get it.  Other people with kids, compliant seeming kids, didn’t get it.  But they had their kids, their kids, and there was nothing on earth like them.

(Sometimes they were exhausting.)

Charlie heaved a deep sigh.  His whole body twitched.  So the decision: wait another few minutes and slide out from under him?  Or just let go… and take a nap?  Get up… or nap?  Up?… Nap?  Nap.  Nap.  Nap.

Sensing a nap, the pup wandered over and situated himself under the coffee table.

Sometime later, Charlie’s sister came home from school.  She noticed the soft snoring from the couch and went to see who was there.  Quietly, she set her backpack down and set herself at the other end of the couch.  Carefully, she climbed onto the couch to join them.

They hadn’t moved when Brittany got home.  She walked through the entire house looking for them, then spied them on the couch on her way back from the bedrooms.  She crossed the room and sat on the coffee table, just looking at them.  Just marveling at her incredible family.

 


	8. Treespotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family Christmas tree hunting.

Her duck boots squinch up to her ankles into the moss as her brother climbs onto her shoulders. Her moms have been coming to this tree farm every year as long as they’ve been in New York. That means she’s been here thirteen times before, maybe ten she remembers, and Charlie — this is his fourth. All the other times, everything’s been frozen and snowy, crisp and cold. This year it’s raining. It’s been raining for days, and the moss is just sodden.

This morning, before light, he’d crept into her bed and wrapped her arm around him. — What’s wrong, Charlie? Nightmare? — He’d taken her fingers and touched them to his temple. — I’m taking the nightmare right out of your head, Baby. There it goes. — She’d kept teasing the nightmare out of his temple and flicking it away, until he’d gone back to sleep.

At the tree farm, Charlie scrambles up — Dude, you are so heavy! — and he scouts. They’ve left their parents behind, but they’ll all catch up.  Mom has the saw and the ensolite to kneel on so they don’t get soaked, and Mama has the camera. Charlie still doesn’t talk, but he always finds the best tree ever.  He taps her head twice and points. She looks up and trudges off in the direction he’s pointing.

She has to keep a lookout for Santana and Brittany, and she has to keep a lookout for the perfect tree he’s spotted, and she has to keep a lookout for puddles deeper than the plastic part of her duck boots, but she follows the treespotter’s directions. Maybe it’s the vantage point from her shoulders, maybe it’s a sixth sense or something, but Charlie always knows. Three taps. Five taps. He takes her head in his hands and turns it toward the perfect tree. She turns. Squinch. Ooh, near-freezing water starts seeping into her boot. Charlie pops up, waving his hands and overbalancing them both into the puddle.

And yes, it’s perfect. — Mom! Mama! Charlie found it!


	9. Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana tries to deal with Sugar's disappearance.

She remained motionless on the couch, exactly where she’d been when Brittany had left this morning.

Brittany slid herself over the back of the couch, insinuated herself between Santana and the cushions, and wrapped her arms and legs around her.

"Honey? Hello in there?"

She didn’t turn, didn’t move.  ”I just miss her,” she barely whispered.

"Yeah, me too."

"I miss you."

"I’m right here."

"How can you keep going?  Our baby’s gone.  We may never get her back."

Silence.  Brittany imagined she could hear their pulses synchronizing.

"Think about what this moment is for her.  She’s with us.  She’s always been with us in that moment, and she always will be."

There were a few more moments of silence.  As always, Brittany waited.  She listened with her whole body.  She listened with her whole self.

At last Santana was able to take in a ragged breath.  ”I have always understood you, somehow.  But I don’t right now.  Thing is, I live here, in this moment, and she’s not, and I need you.  Here.  With me.  Now.”

Brittany pressed her lips into Santana’s hair, a few more slashes of white visible these days.  She held her firmly, but not too tight.  She pressed her palm gently into her sternum until the breath came more smoothly.

"I can’t think, I can’t breathe, and there’s no end in sight.  I can’t work, I can’t sing, I can’t—"

"You tried to sing?"

"It was awful."

"She’s auditioning for Mr. Shue right now, and she’s awful!"

Santana looked up, for the first time.  Her eyes were swollen and awful.

"She is," she breathed. "She is awful."

They smiled, remembering her present.

Charlie slammed through the door at that very moment.  

"Mom!  Mama! I have an idea!"

 


	10. String

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie starts to unravel time travel.

Brittany felt her eyes from the doorway long before she said anything. Again, Brittany waited, kneeling by her invention.

"Teach me," said Santana.

Brittany looked around at her, tired.

"Teach me to use your infernal machine."

Brittany's breath caught. She froze, gaping, no light in her eyes. The awful frowny-face.

"Baby baby baby no, I'm sorry! I just have all these feelings-"

"My feelings are as strong as yours, San. I've said I'm sorry. I'll be sorry the rest of my life, or until we get her back. I'm sorry."

"Britt—"

"It's not fair. It's never fair. But if you look at the big picture, the hand we were dealt has been phenomenal. We got us. We got this. We got the kids. I wouldn't trade any of that. But I have to get her back." She turned back to the time machine.

"How can I help?"

"I don't know... I don't have the words to teach you how."

"Then show me."

"I'm still working on it. I just have to feel my way. Nobody has words for this. They haven't been invented yet."

"Babe. Brittany. Please look at me." Santana crossed the room, closer to the device than she'd been since their daughter disappeared. She knelt by her wife. "Please, Baby, please," she quoted from one of their favorite children's books. Brittany pulled her head out of the locker.

"Please be careful with it."

"I'm going to get her back," said Brittany.

"We are," said Santana. "We. Are." Then, "What's that smell?"

"Dude," said Brittany.

"Exactly, middle-school-dude-smell." She looked toward the doorway. "Charlie, come on in here. I can smell you."

He entered the room sheepishly. "It's Charles, Mom. Please."

"What… 'cologne'… are you wearing?"

"It's what her boyfriend wears. It was always on her after they went out." He scratched his head. "I thought it might help."

Brittany looked up again.

Santana said, "Let's wait until you're in middle school for Axe, shall we? It's perverse on a first grader."

"San, he's right."

Santana wrinkled her nose, then tipped her head doubtfully.

Charles went to his Mom and crawled into her lap.

"Okay, I think I'm allergic or something. You're going to have to wash that off."

"Mom. We need a route to her… like a paper cup and string telephone. We need a string."

"I always meant to do that with you."

"Mama did… And we need something else."

Brittany nodded. "Magic," she said.


	11. Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Santana and Brittany reconnect, Charlie continues to worry at the time machine problem.

Later, another day, when they were cleaning up after dinner, Brittany put her arms around Santana from behind. Santana had prepared salad and an exquisite piece of beef, exquisitely.

"I love you, Honey," she said into Santana's hair behind her ear, "more every day."

"You love me because I just fed you an exquisite piece of beef, prepared exquisitely."

"Kitchen love is real love," said Brittany softly, and she began to nibble that spot behind her earlobe.

"Mom! Mama! You're embarrassing me!" said Charles from the table.

"That's my job," said Santana, taking Britt's dry hand in her wet one.

Considerably later, but before Santana had peeled her sweating face off Brittany's belly, Brittany whispered, "(oh god), I love you so much."

"That's just the sweet lady kisses talking," said San.

"Bed love is real love," said Britt.

At that very moment, Charles crashed through the bedroom door. "Mom! Mama!" he said. Then he stopped. "What's that smell?"

"Charles, you need to go back out that door now, close it, knock, and then wait until I open it okay? Okay, go."

"Mom, you're naked."

"So I am. Now you need to Go back out that door, Close it, Knock, and then Wait until I open it. Okay, go." He gaped for a moment, then went back out that door and closed it. And knocked.

"You'd think he'd be used to us by now," said Santana, "I keep meaning to get a lock."

"Babe, you're really hot."

"Glad you think so, after all these years." Eyebrows popping.

"Yeah, that too, I mean your face is dripping. Are you okay?"

"Hot flash."

"Mom? Mama? Are you coming?"

"Been there," sang Britt quietly, grinning.

"Hush, put this on," said Santana.

Then, suddenly placing her palm against Brittany's breastbone, "You're my string, Brittany."

"You're my string, Santana. You always have been."

"Mom? Mama?" called Charlie.

They looked at each other.

"Magic," they said.


	12. Pinpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie starts learning to use the time machine.

The targeting was tricky: you had to be precise. In order to use the device intentionally, you had to be absolutely clear, and if you’d never experienced that moment before, you had to imagine it so fully that you could actually feel it. Because Mama had made the machine, after all. Mama had made it.

He’d begun planning his sister’s rescue the night she’d vanished, but the machine hadn’t been quite right at that point. And his understanding, and Mama’s understanding of the thing had been so incomplete. He’d watched her work on it, and he’d tried to draw her out about it, and he’d done some tinkering, secretly, on his own. 

See, he was the string. Mom thought she was, but he was the string that could bring his sister home. It was his responsibility. And now he couldn’t keep letting his parents get hurt.

She needed protection, and for that he needed an adult. One who had a strong string himself. And he was pretty sure who that was, and when it needed to be. But he had to be precise.

And the machine had to work properly. Which required tapping the cosmic connection like Mama could. Maybe this time he could splice into hers.

He began experimenting backwards just a few moments. The targeting was simpler if something significant had happened in that moment, like getting poked with a needle.  So he’d do it, then reimagine the moment as fully as possible, the way the sharp tip sliced through the tissue, the signals racing through his neuromusculature to his brain, then other impulses coursing back, causing him to flinch, the drop of blood emerging from the wound.

He reimagined it over and over, every nanosecond, until it was utterly clear. Then he did it again. And again.

He’d waited until his parents were, uh, tapping their own cosmic connection (oh  god) once again, and immersed in its vastness, gathered with it his own love for them, and for her, and when the magic was ready, silently he opened the locker door.  Balancing it all carefully in his heart, he imagined the pinprick again as he closed it.

And he bled again. 

In the universes in which he was allowed to survive, he would remember the relativity of time. And its elasticity.

Plucking the precise moment, he focused the magic and spun his own string out to Mama, following the cord of their connection, so close at times it was hard to tell where he ended and she began. He tugged sharply once. 

Instantly he was home. Proof of concept.

 


	13. Earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another time Brittany and Santana reconnect.

Earlier, when Puck had called, delayed in transit, Santana already rosy, her hands clammy, and Brittany had picked up, because he’d better not be late, not this time, not when—

God, her body. She’s becoming an armadillo. Loss has made her a mess, she’s been wound up for months, mind always spinning, muscles spinning a tougher hide. And Brittany asked her out, for the first time in months, and she’d nearly turned her down, still her habit, still unfair, still tending to blame. Still.

And now Puck, just as reliable in middle age as he’d been as a teenager, only this time she’d made the arrangements, and god help her, Charlie was going out for a movie with him and to spend the night at his roach motel.

Because Brittany asked her out and they haven’t connected in forever in any way, because. And now they need to make it happen, even if they have to do it by appointment. She needs to get her breath. Brittany slides her thumb into the center of Santana’s palm. Breathe. The beginnings of calm begin to spread from the tiny circles Brittany’s thumb makes in the center of her palm. A little more calm. From the center of her palm.

He’ll be here. He will be here. Within minutes. And okay, it’s not a roach motel, there aren’t any roaches there. Not that she’s ever seen anyway, it’s fine. It’s fine. And it’s a co-op, not a motel, it’s just: it’s still a man-cave, and she’s never quite comfortable with Charlie being in man-land.

Not that he can’t handle it. He can. And it’s better now that he talks.

Puck. Pucking pucker. Where the puck is he? She needs to soak ahead of time so she can make her scrub appointment and her massage. Then maybe she’ll be back in her body for the first time in months. Then sit in the tubs and stare into Brittany’s eyes while listening to pouring water and ladies’ voices. And then, maybe. And then. She brings her attention back to Brittany’s thumb. It’s a nice thumb, nicely curved. And strong.

Brittany leads now, finishing up with Charlie, Charles, he insists, but it’s so difficult to remember when he’s been Charlie all his life and suddenly—And Brittany finishes up with Puck, making sure to give him the list Santana drew up this morning when she realized earlier today, today would turn into tonight.

She used to be on top of it, but recently, her head’s been too, too full. And things just get away from her. There’s dropout, a lot of dropout. Calcification. In her mind. Goes with the armadillo hide. —And now it’s time to go. She picks up Charlie one last time and squeezes him like it really could be the last time, and kisses him and tells him she loves him, because you never know, it could be the last time. You never know. She takes a breath and is about to say:

But they all finish it for her: “And stay away from that time machine.”

Since there’s no PDA allowed at the baths, Brittany’s soothing thumb stops soothing at the end of the cab ride, and Santana feels the calm retreating immediately. Before they go in, Brittany catches her elbow and brings them face-to-face.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Brittany’s eyes and mouth soften, and she shrugs toward the door. Santana looks away and pinks, then follows Brittany inside.

Once inside, they sign in, pay, disrobe, enrobe, disrobe again, shower, and soak. It’s weird, but it’s how they do it here. When Santana’s number comes up on the giant digital display, one of the spa ladies ushers her into the scrub room.

She’s about twenty minutes into it when she’s able to stop the nervous chittering in her head. Skin just rolls off as the lady scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. Layer after layer peels back. She begins to feel again. It’s not all pleasant, but it feels safe here, strangely safer than—strangely safer than—no. She sinks into the sensation of the skin. Sloughing. Shucking the outer crust. So when she—when she—god, her skin is buzzing.

She’s getting sleepy. Probably from so much sensation.

Everything goes as planned. Soak, scrub, massage, soak some more. How long since she’s gazed into Brittany’s eyes, good god, how long? (There’s as much hurt there as there is in Santana’s.) And there’s no touching here, it’s part of the challenge, part of the ease and safety, because when Brittany touches her—and she will—it will be a surprise, like the first time, a slow burning surprise, even if Santana touches her first.

Their eyes meet.

Volumes pour between them in the meeting of their eyes. Decades of wins, decades of losses. And this most recent. Santana’s skin shining, polished, not raw, but— she is. Brittany sees the look cross through.

“Wanna go?”

Santana nods, then shakes her head. Then nods again. Some days she can’t bear to leave the house; some days she can’t bear to stay. One thing about being here, all the impersonal intimate attention, her skin and muscles feel more like who she used to be. Only flayed, vulnerable, utterly open.

Brittany’s eyes tell her a story: she too is laid bare. What better time? When more precious than now, with nothing, no bulwark between them. If only they can brave the cab ride without hiding, or growing back their leathery hides.

As soon as they leave the spa, Brittany catches Santana’s hand. Their eyes meet again as Brittany’s thumb resumes its rounds. On the way home, Santana closes her eyes and sinks into the contact, sinks into the sensation humming through her skin, sinks into Brittany’s shoulder. Brittany kisses her hair.

They’ve been through heartache before.

From the heartland, they’ve been through landslide, heartbreak, break-up, upheaval, heavy states, stagnant waters… Dry spells. The desert.

Always again returning, their devotion their constant, knowing together is where they belong. The cab pulls up. Brittany doesn’t let go and pulls her up the stoop. Brittany is getting giggly, and Santana is still serious girl. Brittany stills, pulls Santana’s hand to her mouth, and kisses her knuckles.

Once inside, Brittany serves Santana some wine, which she takes, just a little, just enough, then she takes Brittany down the hall, past their room to the guest room. Brittany hesitates, and Santana shrugs, helplessly.

“Our bed’s too big.” It’s not really a lie.

Brittany giggles a little, then faces her. Santana’s heart races, but she takes her cue from Brittany and stills, locking eyes with her.

“Santana Pierce-Lopez, you are my wife, and I love you. I will always love you.”

“Brittany Pierce-Lopez, you are my wife, and I love you. I will always love you.”

“That’s settled, then. Now I want to fuck you silly.”

+

Sometimes, sometimes Santana wants to control everything. Sometimes she wants to be controlled, corralled, mastered, tamed. It feels strangely safer when Brittany takes all the responsibility, even down to telling Santana exactly what she needs to do to fuck Brittany silly. But sometimes. Sometimes she needs it to be different. Sometimes they need it to be different. Sometimes, because of, in spite of, between, and among their differences, they need to find the exact point of balance. Because teetering over and back in itself is sometimes far too overwhelming, and it just gets in the way.

Brittany unfastens Santana’s dress. Where it opens she places light kisses. Santana closes her eyes and drinks in the toasty chill in the wake of her kisses.

She cherishes their differences. Brittany’s so immediate, intuitive, instinctual. Mosaic. Santana is deliberative, contemplative, judgmental. Labyrinthine. Occasionally they can make the leap to the other side, take sips of the other’s strengths, and spring back to the familiar and easy. Over time, they’ve learned where their strengths fit together. And their weaknesses.

Brittany’s caress makes her knees weaken. She looks toward the bed, back at Brittany, and Brittany gets a wicked smile and picks her up. She throws her over her shoulder (surprise) and takes her to the bed. Brittany pulls back the covers and shifts Santana from a fireman’s carry to a bridegroom’s. Brittany carefully places Santana on the bed and removes their shoes.

Brittany climbs aboard. Aside from her shoes, she is still completely dressed. Santana’s dress bunches around her waist. Brittany starts to remove her own sweater, but Santana takes her hands away and finishes that part of the job.

Brittany’s lips stop when they are a quarter-inch from Santana’s. Her breath grazes Santana’s lips, and her eyes search Santana’s face. She waits until Santana opens her eyes and locks with hers. Brittany slides her thumbs into Santana’s palms then stops them. Santana’s breath catches. Brittany waits. Then she circles her thumbs in Santana’s palms again. Santana breathes again.

How is it even possible that they both close that eighth-inch distance simultaneously?

They meet in the middle. Then Brittany presses Santana’s head back onto the pillow, presses into the kiss with all of her. She frees Santana’s hands and props herself up on her elbows, still pressing into the kiss. Santana first pulls Brittany in even closer, then frees Brittany from her bra, then rolls them over so that she’s on top now, sits up, and frees herself from hers.

Sometimes, breasts on breasts are the best.

Sometimes, it’s lips behind the ear. Sometimes it’s teeth, gently, anywhere soft. Sometimes it’s fingernails on the back. Sometimes it’s legs. Beautiful legs, strong legs, legs pressing between legs. Sometimes it’s the thumb. Nicely curved. And strong. Sometimes it’s the thumb in the ear, sometimes the thumb on the hipjoint, sometimes it’s the thumb traveling southward, spelunking in the labyrinthine— Sometimes it’s the mouth.

The mouth: agile, mobile, versatile. Strong, hard, soft. Sharp, or gentle. Teeth again, teeth on nipples; lips, tongue. Here now, immediate, and yet echoing of all the times before. Lips: lips on lips, little kisses, deep kisses, sucking kisses. Nibbling the earlobe, the throat, the clavicle. Santana gasps as Brittany flips them over again, hands working her dress off, lifting her legs to scrunch it over her still-amazing backside, pausing just to look…

Santana is just in her undies still. Brittany still has her skirt on, and those hilarious knee socks. How can anyone over the age of eleven pull off knee socks? But she does. At forty-seven. Santana smiles, thinking of it. Then she stops thinking, because: Surprise! Brittany’s mouth on the outside of her undies. And she’s just breathing her in. How does she do that, time after time?

“God, I love the way you smell. I gotta taste you.”

“Me— me too, bring yourself up here.”

And she does. There’s some underwear wrangling, and finally the knee socks come off with some giggling. And they’re naked, nose-downward, and oh. Oh. Oh my. And the thumb. God. Oh.

Sometimes sixty-nine is the best. Sometimes, if you want something, you can just do it and it comes right back at you. And the thumb, circling again, now right at the event horizon. Oh. And the lips and tongue? Oh.

“God, I love you,” Brittany hums into her.

“Ohhhh,” Santana hums back.

“Gaaaahhh,” Santana hums back.

“Ahhhh,” Santana hums again.

“Luuuuvvvvvvv,” moans Santana.

And things are getting a little less intentional and little more involuntary. Okay, a lot more involuntary. God. Oh.

Both of them get a little tongue-tied when they’re eating each other. But vocabulary doesn’t count for much when fucking.

Brittany’s thumb goes spelunking in the labyrinthine, and— (oh god)

(oh god)

(oh god)

“Yooooouuuuu!” cries Santana…

As Brittany cries, “Yessssssss!”

(oh god)

(oh god)

And yet another: (oh god)

They collapse on each other, trembling, sweating (oh god).

Brittany’s breath rustling Santana’s curlies causes another aftershock.

Santana steals another taste, causing another aftershock.

(oh god)

Brittany nips the inside of Santana’s thigh, eliciting squeals.

“Okay, okay, come kiss me, god!”

And they taste themselves and each other, mingling, giggling.

+

Brittany, sleepy after sex, nestles into Santana’s shoulder. Santana is wide awake. Her body is discharged, but her mind is bright. Not churning, not like earlier today, but bright, receptive, like much earlier, like thirty years ago, like the first time after they’d started dating. Santana brings her attention to the breath of her wife, her lover, her best friend, and slowly, slowly, exhaustion takes over, and slowly, very slowly, she drifts into sleep.

 


	14. Listing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Sugar's attempts to get Brittany and Santana back together.

What’s that smell? Is it paraffin, woodsmoke, seared beef? Something’s cooking closeby, something’s hot. Her lips are working, she’s salivating, there were kisses. Humming, fevered kisses, but whose?

She opens her eyes, flooding the room with blue, or is it the light through the curtains? Curtains blowing, rippling, shaking. Is it a storm? a breeze? simply a whipping dancing gust from the west?

And whose head is on the pillow beside her? And where are all the parents? Sure, they’re 18 now, but what happened to House Rules? Not that she ever really observed them, arcane, byzantine, bifurcated. And for a bicorn like herself, why would a double standard apply?

She wonders if her nose is lying again. One time, her nose got so inflamed inside that peanut butter smelled like ammonia, like it couldn’t allow molecules as large as peanut butter in, only small molecules like oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, ammonia. Paraffin is a waxy straight-chain hydrocarbon, long and complicated, but not as long and complicated as love.

And what does love smell like? Cinnamon, maybe, fresh bread, chocolate chip cookies, yes that; peonies, jasmine, magnolia blossoms, yes, magnolia, sweet and lemony; armpits, ozone, girl.

But it’s a girl. It’s a girl beside her. And it’s not Santana.

What room is this? What day is it? What time is it? It’s still pretty dark, not entirely, but it must be pretty early. Twilight, predawn, rosy-fingered dawn. And the bed is so so soft, too soft, like it’s half-swallowed her, how’s she going to get up? And she’s going to have to get up soon.

Soon. Soon she’s going to have to pee, eat, brush her teeth. Does she have a toothbrush? And when she manages to get out of the too-soft bed, whose face will turn to face her?

Because she was sure those were Santana’s kisses.

But that is definitely not Santana’s hair.

She has to think, what is the last thing she actually remembers? Not like dream-memory, what’s the last actual thing she did that she remembers?

Something about a catwalk. Then the kissing. But that had to be a dream, fantasy, mirage, because she’s in the bed with a redhead. Reddish, anyway.

Time to use her head, focus, pay attention: this is a hotel room, functional, serviceable, cheapish. Only one bed. Everything seems tilted, slightly off-kilter, listing. But that’s just Brittany. Isn’t it? Where’s the missing piece? How did she get here? And why?

What’s missing?

Missing whom, more like. Missing, kissing, moving, loving. Touching. This list of wishes doesn’t whimper. It demands. It wants. It seeks Santana. She wants to kiss Santana. Not this…

Girl.

That’s it, she can’t delay any longer. She has to get up. She has to get home, or go home to the girl who has been her home. So she rolls very carefully to the edge and without disturbing the girl, tips herself up and off the bed. She notices she’s dressed mostly, relief, and attends to her hygiene.

She’s just opening the door when a very sleepy Sugar looks up and says, “Mom? Come be cozy.”


	15. Stumbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Brittany's trips in the time machine, looking for Sugar.

The good news is: Sugar isn’t here. Brittany ducks into a doorway for a moment, just to catch her breath. She needs to get home: this never happened.

Stumbling while dancing.

Her wife towing another woman down the hall drunkenly, as if. And it’s— This so never happened.

Something is off about the colors here, it’s all so saturated, high-contrast, sterile. That’s it. That’s what’s wrong.

There’s no love in this world.

Everything she’s seen so far, everything, reeks of missed connections, opportunities lost, clear paths avoided, chances at love cast off. As if—

As if Something is preventing happiness.


	16. PreDawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana returns from looking for Sugar.

It was about stupid o’clock when Santana fell back through the time machine.  For once Charlie was asleep, and as always Brittany was awake, waiting. 

She’d started from sleep suddenly about a minute and a half before, knowing.

Santana didn’t get up right away.  Her breath was labored.  Brittany was there, with an ice pack.  She rolled Santana over to look at her face.  It was worse this time, much worse.  She pulled her into her lap and supported her with her left arm and knee.  Gently, she applied the ice pack to the worst of the bruises.  Carefully, she raised Santana’s shirt and got an eyeful of red and purple around her ribs.  Santana groaned, her eyes fluttering open, unfocused.

Brittany’s hand on her cheek guided Santana’s gaze toward her eyes.  Santana’s eyes focused, softened, then teared up.  Her entire body shuddered unpleasantly, her eyes closing again.  She seemed to shrink somehow.  Brittany’s hand went to her solar plexus, intensifying the connection, bringing her back a little more.  She wouldn’t release her for an instant to wipe away her own tears.

Santana contracted more.  Brittany’s lips barely grazed her temple.  Then she laid them there and stayed, forging a second connection.  She had to come all the way back.  Breathing became difficult, but it was dangerous to go there.  Shifting her attention between herself and her other half, Brittany poured love into them both until her own breath, anyway, evened out.  That locker took such a toll, more every time.

How many more would they be afforded?

Santana’s hand covered Brittany’s, making a third connection.  Brittany could no longer focus this close to see whether her love’s eyes were open, but she didn’t risk pulling away.  Come back, Love.  Come back, Love, come back.  She pressed her tongue between her lips and into Santana’s temple.  A few moments later she was rewarded with the sound of Santana taking in a deep breath.

How many (oh god) how many more times?

Black black black, she hummed, is the color of my true love’s hair.

If it weren’t so dire, she’d laugh.  Oh.  Oh dear, she did.  Because lips, because tongue, because hands, knees, tangling fingers.  She continued to hum through it, but she couldn’t stop laughing softly at the same time.  And at last Santana came back, back, all the way back, humming with her and eventually laughing softly herself.

They stayed that way for several minutes.

Santana gradually snaked her right arm between them and moved Brittany’s head just far enough away that they could each focus on the other’s eyes.  Farther away now, but ever deeper.  She shook her head, then looked away.  Brittany didn’t mean to, but she shook her head, too.  Then she wrapped around Santana.

They couldn’t keep doing this.

At that very moment, silently, Charlie’s face emerged from the shadows in the doorway.  No, they couldn’t.  They couldn’t keep doing this.

 


	17. CPR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana has let Charles put his plan into action. Now she has to restart Brittany's heart.

Brittany awoke when Santana sat down on the bed.  When she remained facing away, Brittany knew she had unpleasant news.  For that, she could wait.  She checked the time: it was late, or early.  Which meant it was about the time machine. 

And she hadn’t started out of sleep this time.

Why hadn’t she?  Why not? 

Finally, Santana turned to face her.  Brittany loved that she’d let herself age naturally, mostly.  The lines around her eyes had turned into a fold or two, and she had started showing a little jowl, but she’d kept her hair dark, except for a little white here and there. (It had gone completely white within the summer two years ago, after they’d caught Charles using the machine.)  She’d found the best colorist in town.  Her eyebrows remained perfect. Brittany waited still.

That machine.  So awesome, and yet so awful.  She’d found Santana putting a padlock on it once and begged her not to.  Eight years later, Santana had caught her putting a lock on it and held her back, saying: Leave the door open.  You never know.

And if their daughter were to come back through that door, what then?

Charles thought they were on a dead-end timestream.  That once his rescue was successful, all this would simply disappear.  All this emptiness would collapse on itself and cease to exist.  They would resume their lives ten years ago.  They might or might not remember that any of this had ever happened.  Might not.  Probably not.  And who wouldn’t want to let go of this: facing day after endless day without their daughter, knowing her own creation was what had swallowed her, what had injured their son, what had driven so much distance between herself and her anchor to the world, her rock, her wife.  Would never drive them apart, but in the last years there had been distance.  Every locker scene took its toll (even the triumphant ones).  So she waited for the punchline.  Or the punch.

She tried to imagine what their daughter looked like now.  Grown, with her own career.  Maybe with her own family.  Too many tethers ever to want to return.  It really just wasn’t going to happen.  It really wasn’t.

Magic is for children.  And none of them are children any more.

Santana reached toward her but hesitated.  Brittany took her hand: You need to tell me. Santana’s eyes shone.  What was that look?  What was it?  Regret?  Hope?

What if?  What if Charles was right?  What if they’d doubted him all this time and they’d been wrong?  What if Fate really had laid a hand?  What if it wouldn’t relent, what if Charles wouldn’t relent, until this— virus— had run its course?

Santana laid herself on Brittany’s chest, not letting go of her hand.  She listened to her heartbeat for a few seconds.  She sobbed, once.

Brittany held her, listening.  For a few moments, she sent herself back in time, back forty years, to Valentines Day, and here, now, kissed her hair like she’d kissed her lips then.  She sent herself back thirty years, to their wedding, and here and now, kissed her hair like she’d kissed her lips then.  She sent herself back twenty-seven years to the birth of their first child, and kissed her hair like she’d kissed her lips then.  She went back seventeen years to Charlie’s birth, then ten years, before the device had splintered their lives, and she kissed her hair like she used to kiss her lips.

She rolled Santana across herself, still holding her hand, until they were on their sides facing each other.  She gently pushed her far enough away to be able to focus on her face: I need you to tell me.

She knew (oh god) she knew before Santana even opened her mouth.

How long would they have?  Ten minutes?  Ten hours?

Or Charles’s faith in magic was mistaken, and they would continue on and on and on, without.  She’d had plenty of without, thanks very much.

What would it take?  What could nudge Fate to bump them out of this timestream?  All of them.  Together.  Yeah: Say a little prayer.

Santana pulled Brittany’s hand to her own heart.  She touched Brittany’s nose with her other hand.  Not of her own will, Brittany’s eyes met Santana’s.  Hope.  And regret.

Santana laid her thumb across Brittany’s palm, pressed, then began tracing the lines.  Hey.  Hi.  Hey. 

Tears flowed freely, silently now, from Santana’s eyes, even still filled with hope. (And regret).  She brought Brittany’s fingers to her lips, kissing them, one by one.  She tripped back forty-one years: I want to be with you.  I want to be with you. And she gripped Brittany and pulled her to herself the way she couldn’t let Brittany then, performing some kind of time-travel CPR, not with air and compression, but with breath and compassion.  Come back, Baby, come back.

Santana placed her ear again on Brittany’s heart.  The beat was strong, but her response was still weak.  Santana crossed her hands behind Brittany’s heart and rooted her lips in between the buttons on her flannel pajamas, the ones she’d bought to keep comfortable during night sweats.  She pressed through from in front and behind.  Somehow, she’d have to jumpstart the heart of Brittany.  It would be difficult.  Brittany blamed her. 

Brittany blamed herself.  It was hard to climb out of that mudpit, once it had been dug and soaked for this long.  It was deep, filled with pits, footing uneven, slippery.  But what if someone threw her a rope?  Wouldn’t she take it?  Would she?  Because what if Charles did have it wrong, and they were going to carry on?  How could she carry on?  Who had been through everything imaginable with her (and many things unimaginable)?  Who?  Here.  Now.

Brittany slipped her hand free, slid both hands under Santana’s armpits, and pulled her up, so their faces were level.  She was starting to sweat again.  Her eyes couldn’t focus.  But she knew, she reminded herself, what Santana looked like.  She knew what she looked like now, and she knew what she’d looked like for every then they’d had together.  And that was a lot of then.  She laid her cheek along Santana’s and breathed in her scent.

(Pick a moment.  Pick a moment.  You pick.)

That awkward moment at family camp when the baby was three.  Well, what are you?  That woman owed them some babysitting after that.

Because it was hot actually and she’d been sweating then, too, and there was absolutely no privacy, and they’ve never exactly been quiet, even since the children.

And there’s certainly privacy now.

(Say it.  Say I love you back.)

The next line in the script is that she touches her lips to Santana’s.  Do something different.  Do it the same.  Just do something.  She’s here, now, and her heart is breaking. 

Santana may not remove spiders and dead animals, but she knows how to take the lead.  She starts slowly, just barely breathing into her ear, kissing her temple, her cheek.  At the smallest increase in pressure on her back, she moves toward Brittany’s throat.

Sweet lady kisses to the throat just might always could yes good swamp the ice in this heart.  Earlobe, teeth.

What will tip these sweet lady kisses into passion?  What makes a prayer into a psalm? Santana opens Brittany’s pajama top.  One button, one kiss.  Santana loves the way Brittany is aging naturally, mostly.  She sends Brittany on a little time trip back to body shots.  On a little time trip back to the steam room.  The rec room.  The choir room, under the bleachers, the janitor’s closet.

But she hesitates at her lips.  Why?  Why is that?

How?  How can I be of service?  What is it that you may want, or need?  And is it okay for me to take you there?  Can I now, after all this time, just grasp the string and pull?  Would it rip your heart out?  Or would it drag you out of the mud?  Do it the same.  Do something different.  Just. Do. Something.

She lets her leg drag between Brittany’s as she pulls herself up, so their faces are level.  It is better with eye contact.  But it’s harder when you can’t focus so close.  So she brackets Brittany’s mouth with her thumbs and carefully brings their lips together.

The way Brittany had, the first time she’d kissed her.

Brittany.  Heart of hearts.  Heart of my life.  Come back to me.  No matter where we go, no matter when we are, you will always be my heart.

When the ice cracks on a river in spring it sounds like thunder.  When the ice cracks in Brittany’s heart, it sounds like a sharp intake of breath.  It feels like being gripped by a vise.  The answer is yes.  Pull the rope.  Pull the rope please.  Please.  Pull it.  Pull.  Pull.  Pull harder.  Yes you can.  Pull it.  Pull me out.  Pull me out of this deepening pit.  Pull!  Pull!  Pull!  Yes.  You.  Can.

(Thunder.)

For a moment, all the Santanas and all the Brittanys line up, and the fuzz sharpens, and they both see each other as clearly as they ever did.

 


	18. Pinball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles puts his plan into action.

Nailed it.

He’d become so used to missing the moment, that when he saw her, for an instant he froze, breathless.

It had been ten years for him, but more like one year for her. She saw him emerge from the locker, gave him a look of disdain, not seeing him, not really, and continued her trajectory, and her conversation.

Good thing he’d had his ducks in a row.

The auburn wig fell over his eyes, and the knit hat disguised his stature. That ratty plaid shirt he’d found covered any of the rest anyone might notice. Now he just needed the dazed and confused affect. That one wasn’t difficult. The time machine had shaken him up pretty hard this time.

He watched her walk down the hall with her friends, pause at the bulletin board, and walk on. He moved over to see what she’d been looking at. Glee club sign-ups. Huh.

At that very moment, a huge redhead in a letter jacket shoved him into the wall as he passed by. “What’s up, stoner?”

“Wha-aaat?” he said. Dazed and confused.

Right, he was signing up for glee club. Name, he’d taken a name, what was it? Like Mama. Right. Brett. Brett… Stoner.

Enormous hands picked him up completely and shoved him inside a locker.

Without his sister to defend him, he’d had to acquire the skills to maintain a certain amount of bodily safety and dignity at his school. He’d had to beg his parents to leave it to him and not run to the administration. He told them he’d be getting in trouble, but it was all part of his plan. He got in trouble, alright. Three days’ suspension for going all Washington Heights on the biggest bully in school. Guy was a mountain. The damage was infinitesimal, compared to the boost in his rep. Nobody touched him after that. Nobody. He could take the name-calling: pinhead, geek, retard, faggot, fuckin’ crazy. Whatever. There’s no reasoning with the intentionally stupid. You just have to manipulate them. He’d learned the hard eyes from Mom.

He peered through the ventilation slits. The hall was clear. But his head wasn’t. Pain was everywhere. He quietly opened the locker and had just stepped out when the bell rang. Moments later, he was afloat in a sea of teens.

Suddenly, his elbow was yanked to the side and he washed up on the shore of the journalism club, looking into the eyes of his rescuer. Ooh, that is so weird. Teen Mama. What was he doing? What was it? Signing up for glee. He had to get out of here. But her hand wouldn’t let go.

“You need to stay here this period,” she said.

She didn’t let go until he started to shuffle toward a desk. She had the look she would get when people made rude remarks about him. He knew he’d better roll with it. Maybe he would stop hurting. He did his best to keep his head up while the— Coach? was humiliating another student, but it felt almost like he needed to catch up with himself: Worst. Jet lag. Ever.

Brittany sat at the next desk. She was wearing the frowny-face, but she smelled delicious. Gross, Dude. It’s just not cool to think of your mother as hot. Moving on. 

Wait, Mama— no, Brittany— in journalism club? No, this was The Muckraker, so— ohhh. Too early. And his clothes were different? How—? He’d fixed the machine. He’d refined how to work it. He’d controlled it just fine before. Something… Something was at work here that was not him. And was not in his plan. And was not in his control. Sometimes ducks fly. Fly with it.

Try a new plan. When the bell rang again, he tried to make his way back to the last locker he’d spun through. The current rushed him toward the bulletin board, but then into the bio classroom next to it. He sat in the back of the class for the period, hoping to get his bearings. After the bell, more lettermen grabbed him and scrubbed the whiteboard with his head. Then they were gone. He filled in what had been wiped off, correcting the errors. At second bell, he ventured out into the hallway to find the open locker. He took a moment to focus, to imagine, to get precise, as he had taught himself. Then he stepped in.

Time became elastic, and he chose his moment. The machine lurched and bumped, the sound of metal strain filled his ears. He felt as if he and the locker had been hurled to the floor from a significant height. Humans aren’t supposed to do this; probably all life forms aren’t supposed to do this, unless there are silcone rubber life forms. Then his chest started aching again. Last time it had taken months to heal. But maybe, if his theory was correct, he wouldn’t have to worry about that. Maybe.

Mom had let him go. He was going to sneak off, but she caught him. If it had been Mama, there’s no way she would have caved. But Mama remained asleep this time, even though every other time she’d awakened when he got anywhere near the machine. He’d taken to sneaking home from school in the middle of the day, when they were both working.  Almost every time, he’d been able to get home before they did. Almost. So they’d grounded him. Until he convinced Mom that this was their chance: to get back what they’d lost; everyone would get a do-over. And Mama did everyone a favor by staying asleep.

He was sweating when he stepped out this time, but the sign up sheet was right there, on the bulletin board.  Nailed it again. His head was still ringing when he signed up: Stoner Brett. The ringing was compounded by that of the school bell. Did that thing ever stop?

The next many moments were those of a pinball, zinging off the bumpers, ringing bells, and lights flashing behind his eyes. Getting launched into lockers, dumped into dumpsters, and stuffed into squat-boxes. How did his parents survive this place? He didn’t even get a chance to prove himself here, because something… something didn’t give him an extra moment.

Was he stuck? Trapped in a pinball machine forever? Or was this some perverse kind of Groundhog Day? Somehow if he did something right, he’d move forward in time instead of bouncing, literally, from hell moment to hell moment? This gave him a real window into the hardness both of his parents sometimes had.  Already it was making him harder than he already was. What was the point? Why this? Why now? What was the point? His sister— Sugar, now, Sugar— she was the point, right? Right? Find her again, get her home, move on. Or back. Do-overs, that was the point. Keep trying for that moment when Sugar could see him, really see him, and be ready to come back. 

Ready to come back. Ready. In a year, she’d established so many tethers to this time and place. And what about Al? Would he be willing to come back? And if not, what would happen to the timestream?

He spied Teen Mom— Santana— stalking toward him in a fabulous red satin jacket with Teen Uncle Dave. His stomach churned. It was too weird. She stopped the violence, and he loved her like never before. The adrenaline pinned him to the spot. What was it Mama used to say? Use the freeze to catch your breath, then find the flight and fly, little duck. He ran. Into the girls’ bathroom. Time stretched, popped him like a rubber band, and he smacked right into Brittany.

“Oh, um. Sorry.”

“Hey Homeless Brett, wanna see somethin?”

“Hunh?”

“It’s me and Santana’s sex tape.”

“Mama! Gross!”

“I intercut it with footage of Lord Tubbington doing housework.”

“Wha-aaat?”

She looked at him closely.

“Is that a wig, Charlie?”

“It’s Brett.”

“Make sure Santana knows how much you like the video, okay, Brett?”

And she was gone.

Homeless Brett. And wasn’t he, now? He smelled that way. He entered a stall hoping that he could just rest, just long enough to gather his wits, or get kicked out. And when he got kicked out, when would he be? He had to find Al. Al and Sugar. And get them home.

Brittany had smelled different, this Time.  Closer to how he remembered she will.  How odd, just now, to wish he could just crawl into her lap the way he could ten years ago.  And he spun it out, his string, without the machine at all, and he felt the fabric of time begin (oh god) to bend.  Stop.  Stop now! Please.  

And it stopped.  Whatever-it-was stopped it.  Like it was listening.  Like it was waiting. Like it was giving him some time.

What if… what if he helped out Brittany?  (Nothing.)  What if he found Santana and told her about the cat doing chores?  (Time breathed easily.)  Why would any of that be more important than bringing Sugar home? (He felt the wind-up again, then as his intention backed off, so did the wind-up.) What if he does whatever it seems to want?  How long before he gets what he came for?  And on whose timeline?

So he did it.  And when he did it, he took the opportunity to tell his Mom just how much he loved her, but with the dazed and confused affect. And almost as soon as he left the library, he was flung decades into the future, and as he catapulted, he spun out his string, latched onto the cosmic connection between his parents, and found himself, maybe an hour or two after he’d left, outside the door to their room.  He tapped gently on the door.

“Mom?”  he asked softly.  ”Mama?”


	19. Parallax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After they return to their original timestream.

Santana remembers nothing of the past ten years.

Of course those ten years no longer exist.

At night, Brittany tells her stories. She tells stories about those ten years, the timestream that peeled off from theirs. It was an accident, a time-travel accident that took their daughter back to their high school years. Brittany describes how they tried to find her themselves, how their son risked injury, risked death. time-traveling repeatedly to bring his sister home, to right the time-continuum. She talks about how their son, seventeen-year-old Charles had died and seven-year-old Charlie had not died when the time rubber-band snapped them back to now. Santana wants to believe Brittany, has always believed in her, but she sounds… not quite sane. Every attempt at communication only builds a taller wall between them.

The kids remember it too. 

Charlie, f/k/a Charles, f/k/a Charlie, just turned eight, but he  _remembers_ fending off the bullies his sister couldn’t protect him from,  _remembers_ shouldering the responsibility of bringing her back,  _remembers_  working out how to use the time machine. He  _remembers_  dying. And not dying. 

Sugar, as she prefers to be called now, spent a couple of extra years in high school. Her timestream moved more slowly, somehow. She keeps reminding her Mom how loving Mama changed her, made her better, more compassionate. (Compassion is sometimes hard to find when the people she loves the most seem so remote. It’s strange, too, when her kids can remember their parents’ past.) Sugar tries to keep it light, but Santana senses her guilt over stepping into the time machine in the first place. Sugar blames herself for creating the ten years of grief for her parents and brother. She blames herself for her Mom’s disconnection from the rest of the family. Santana sometimes finds herself blaming her, too.

She not only doesn’t remember the lost years, she also forgets, sometimes, her family’s trauma. The loss of their daughter, but without the resolution of death, Brittany’s feeling of responsibility, Charlie’s having to protect himself before he was ready, the three of them being injured by overusing the time machine. Trying to find her and failing. Trying and failing and failing and failing. Blaming each other. Growing apart. Not to mention Sugar’s having to improvise for two insane years in Lima, Ohio. No wonder she was absent so often.

Sometimes Santana finds Brittany staring off. She knows where she goes when she goes there, but she can’t go with her. 

"You wouldn’t want to," says Brittany, "they were hard years."

Those years still exist for Brittany. They still exist for the kids. The Brittany Code is embedded into their genes. Santana repeatedly crashes into the inch-thick Plexiglas wall those years have become, both shield and separation. Both comfort and distance. 

All those memories, together, no longer shared. It’s maybe a bit like waking from a coma.

Being left behind leaves her heavy, hot, jagged. Little things irritate her. Charlie’s fighting at school, Sugar’s attempts to mend the rift between them, Brittany’s withdrawal. She rages, sometimes, taking it out on her family, screaming, “ _¡Cosas malas! ¡Cosas malas!_ ”

Brittany and Sugar and Charlie take a breath, then say together, “That’s what you said at Nationals!”

At least she remembers that. Laughter acts as a patch.

Sometimes she makes lists of things she  _does_  remember that they remember, too.  _Rocky Horror Picture Show_. Rescuing  _Grease,_  because Finn, like Mr. Shue, could never picture Tina in a non-specifically-Asian role. (Even though it hurt, Brittany brought out the best in her.) Sugar bringing them back together whenever she could. Valentine’s Days. Their wedding. Deciding how they wanted to have kids. Trying and failing, trying and failing, and then giving birth to the most amazing baby girl. Times at gay family camp. Brittany’s pregnancy and Charlie’s birth. Cozytimes with all of them. Baseball and soccer coaching. The Naked Ladies’ Spa. Good times, hard times, times of love.  

She stops short of the time machine incident. Because she doesn’t remember it.

"Honey," says Brittany, late one night when she senses Santana lying awake.  Santana turns and curls into Brittany’s waiting arm. This hasn’t changed. The collective sigh when they touch. The lifting of tension, the dropping of masks, being  _home_.

"You’re my love and my companion. You’re my wife."

"I know. And you’re mine."

"In all of them, all the worlds, a _ll of them,_ we’re together. I can feel them all. Sometimes one of us dies, and sometimes we die together, and sometimes we escape dying, and sometimes one of us is sick, and sometimes hurt, and sometimes frightened, but we’re always together. You are mine, and I am yours. Always.”

“ _All_?”

The enormity hits her. How many lives can exist in one mind?

"There are so many, Love," chokes Brittany, "But here, now, we’re all together. Starting now, let’s just live this one."


End file.
